


It gives me such a thrill, baby

by Baryshnikov



Series: Boredom & Bedfellows [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Machiavellian-ism, Mild self-cest, Multi, Narcissism, Obsession, POV Second Person, Pain, Sadism, Sane!ButNotNice!Tom, Tom is not so nice, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Violence, chaotic energy, psychopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 17:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Narcissist. Psychopath. Sadist. Machiavellian. Monster. Those are the five words that describe you, and you absolutely love them.





	It gives me such a thrill, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Normally this sort of fic would go in my 'Where monsters lie' series but this one just had such a radically different energy about it, much more chaotic than usual, that it just didn't feel like it would properly fit there.

You’re a narcissist. 

How can you not be? 

You like the way you look. There nothing wrong with it, you know that for a fact, because _everyone_ likes the way you look. They all make it so obvious that you can have any one of them, but you're not really interested in other people, not when you have yourself. That’s why you like Harry because Harry looks like you. You’d love to become more like him, or rather, that he would become more like you. Then you’d happily let him push you against the mattress like you know he _really_ wants to. Sometimes you pretend you don’t see him with his open mouth staring at you, though, usually you flash him a smile. Pink mouth. White teeth. Completely irresistible. _He wants you more_. You wish he’d just _take_ what he wanted. Push you against the wall and unhook the secrets you keep behind your tongue. You’d love his mouth on you because his mouth looks like your mouth and you are just so in love with yourself. Of course you are. You’re just so perfect, and why would anyone want anything other than perfection? When you watch him, you can almost taste his tongue, that’s just like your tongue, in your mouth, his hands, that are just like your hands, holding you down, restraining you because you’re always rough with the things you love. You’d let him do anything to you, let him persuade you and push you and pleasure you. Let him try to please you, and he’d try so damn hard that it would almost be tragic. Of course, you’d give him what he wanted, writhe and moan no matter how pathetic his attempts at desire are. Because desire can be taught, it can be shaped and refined and turned into something gorgeous, and you’re willing to waste your time on him. Use his body as a new instrument to get what you want because you really want yourself and no one else can give you that. But for now, Harry isn’t doing anything other than watching you so pathetically. Just sitting there chewing his lip. _It’s so irritating_. Because he wants you, but he won’t take you, so you have to put up with your imagination. Have to lie back in your own bed and stare at the lights and wonder about the flavour of your own mouth. The sharpness of your own teeth, the texture of your own lips, thinking how gorgeous it would be to kiss yourself, to touch yourself, to fuck yourself. 

 

You’re a psychopath. 

You can’t help it. 

You try to care about other people, well that’s a lie you tell yourself, you don’t care, don’t care for any of them. _You never have_. When you were younger it confused you, how people could cry for other people’s pain. How they could even care when the bad things that happened weren’t ever happening to them. _You just never understood people_. They cried too much. They felt too many things. They were simply irrational. Anyway, you always found your way of looking at things just that much better. No people. No tears. Nothing to worry about, apart from yourself. If people knew the real you, then they’d call you heartless, they’d call you callous and unempathetic, but they don’t know the real you. _No one does_. Though maybe you’d show Harry, peel back your façade just enough to show him, because Harry would like to be the _only_ one who got to see all the nasty things inside your head. He wouldn’t like them, but oh you’d love to see his reaction. You’d love to see what he really thinks of his idol when he found out the truth. But then again, it's so fun hiding behind a pretty little mask. It gives you a buzz when people fall in love with what they think they see. A kick to know they've fallen for your lies. A real thrill when they tell you how amazing you are, as they slide their mouths over your neck, and tell you that you’re simply charming. You love playing that role. That fairy-tale prince everyone thinks is there to save them. Including Harry. Especially Harry. He fell fast and he fell hard for you and the buzz still hasn’t worn off. But for now, you have to put up with Ginny. Boring Ginny, who says she doesn’t always like you, that she distrusts you even, especially when you’re around people she knows you like. But she’s just being silly, that’s what you tell her as you kiss her forehead, that she’s being silly; that you’d never ever hurt her. But you do. You _always_ do. It's fun to think of her fire when you're kissing other girls, and it’s hardly your fault if she’s too caught up in your lies not to see that you're only using her. _Her stupidity is not your responsibility_. 

 

You’re a sadist. 

That’s just your nature. 

People say you’re cruel, and god do you love it. You just love the feeling of their pain, the echoes of their whines and groans, and other pathetic little noises that they make. It makes you feel powerful. Formidable. Irrepressible. And you just can’t help yourself. _It’s such a power rush, baby_. That’s what you say when your tongue is loose from the thrill. Its what you tell them when they whimper and ask how you could possibly enjoy the things you do. It’s the thing that you want to murmur in Harry’s ear when he’s screaming. _It’s such a power rush, baby_ , you'd say when the tears start to leak from his eyes. _It’s such a power rush, baby_ , you'd say when his throat wretched and sore. _It’s such a fucking power rush, baby_ , you'd say when his body gives in. You could hold him then, hold him real tight, your nails embedded in his scalp. Just cooing so quietly, reminding him that he's special, that he's your _baby_ , and you're never going to stop hurting him because he's your _baby, baby, baby_. You're almost surprised by yourself. Is that really what Harry is to you now? Your little sweetheart that you dream of hurting and twisting and breaking. But you bet he’d cry so nicely. That hurt would look so good scrawled across his face. God, you wonder if you’re becoming sentimental. But after you catch his eyes watching you again, you know you’re not. You don’t want to be nice to him. In fact, you’ve never wanted to be nastier. To pull his head back by his hair and drag your nails all over his throat. You want to make him bleed, spill all over your hands until he’s begging with those pretty lips just to make you stop. _You’re sick, and you love it_. You can’t help yourself that you want to wrench him out of shape, tear him apart and let all his insides run out, you want to do that to everyone you like. Something about Harry is special though and it makes you want to rip him apart, have him crying out your name. Just crying out. _Please. Please. Please_. That is what you want, his pure and pathetic adulation. It’s just your nature, well, that and the fact he looks so _breakable_ sitting there across the room. But for now, you have to content yourself with Avery. Precious Avery with his eyes too wide and his hair not quite the right shade of brown. Precious little Avery who cries so easily and always passes out before you can have the real fun. Sweet little Avery who hates the sight of blood but endures it all for you. Gorgeous, naïve, little Avery who thinks that you could learn to love him; if he lets you choke him every night. 

 

You’re so Machiavellian. 

It’s awfully fun though. 

You arrange people as though you are a florist, anyone can do it if they want, place flowers in a vase, but it takes years of practice to be any good at it, and some people will never be. But you’re good, you’re ever so good at what you do. For you, arranging people in such pretty patterns, such displays that always get you what you want in the end, has always been easy. _People are just so easy to play with_. They do it to themselves really, and it would be a shame not to…exploit such pathetic vulnerabilities. It’s good that it’s easy though, because getting what you want is incredibly important to you, and right now, you want Harry. Want him to look at you like _that_ all the time, want him to need you more than the oxygen he breathes. You want him hanging off your arm and off your every word like he’s a puppy and you’re his master. But as much as you hint, slide your hand over his and smile like an angel, he doesn’t seem to _get_ it. You knew he was oblivious, but you didn’t think he could be _this_ ignorant of suggestions. Not that it’s a terrible setback. After all, you can get anyone you like with a few words, a few empty promises that mean absolutely nothing. All because promises are like candles, they light the world for a while, and then they’re gone, and the world is back to the way it was before. But you don’t want to manipulate him into getting your way, you want him to give himself at his own free will. That way it’s a victory. That way you can smile smugly at him forever more because he gave himself away for a pittance. Except he hasn’t, not yet at least. You hope he’ll let you have him soon. But for now, you have to entertain yourself with Abraxas. He is your star piece, the one you carved so carefully from marble, crafted into a true work of art made from all the white flowers of the world. You wish everyone was like Abraxas, so easy to mould. All it takes, to have anything you want from him, is your lovely smile and your hands on his thigh, lighting the candle promises for a while. With your mouth against his and your fingers in his hair, you know by the end of the night, you’ll be _that_ much richer because Abraxas expresses his hopeless devotion with money, and he does it ever so well.

 

You’re a monster. 

And you love it. 

You have problems but doesn’t everyone? You didn’t ask to be this way, you’re just making the best of it. So how can you help it if you’re things that people don’t like? You can't. Thus you revel. Revel in being the things that disgust them, revel in being the things that revolt them. You simply adore being the nightmare wrapped up in a pretty dream, their hope and saviour angel of death. Always laughing at everything normal people do because normal people are just so funny. If you're honest, Harry’s just like the rest of them, lovesick and needy, but you still want to break him. You still want to add him to your long list of people you don’t care about, people you’ve played with, people who are now spent. You want to put him into one of your boxes: _useful_ or _not useful_ or _simply fun_. Things make much more sense when they’re put into boxes, it makes them easier to use, but that doesn’t mean you want your life to be planned. Where is the fun in knowing what you’re going to do next? There isn’t any, and sometimes you just have to let go. Fling yourself right off the edge because you’re so bored, because you want to taste the razor-sharp limits of reality, because you want to spit your tongue open and find something interesting to waste your time on. Harry. Harry. Harry. Oh, that is how you want to waste your time. You’ve never wanted anyone to want you as much as him. You wish that he fancied all the parts of you, the nice lovely side that everyone gets to see, and the nasty one that you’d reserve all for him. Introduce him to your monsters, one by one, until he loves them, or he so scared of you that he’ll simply have to just go missing, like so many of your friends do. He still hasn’t made a move though. He just sits across from you longing and longing and longing and just never ever acting. It makes you grind your teeth and leave the table early just to show him that you’re annoyed. You’ll get him one day, of course, you will. But for now, you tolerate Bellatrix. She’s not interesting, but she is unpredictable, volatile, some would even say unstable. They’d tell you not to hang around with such a hopeless crowd, such slapper girls that could ruin your perfect reputation. _God, if only they knew what you really were_. There is no one alive that can give you thrills like Bellatrix, wild nights and sanctimonious mornings that ease the aching in your skull. Bellatrix doesn’t care that you don’t even like her, as long as you don’t push her away, you can pretend that she’s anyone in the world, and you pretend she’s Harry.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my somewhat liberal use of italics.


End file.
